your promises haunt my gaunt eyes
by Shiluette
Summary: Atoryo. Ryoma did not think Keigo's future would include him. He is unsure about Keigo's next offer. Cue long distance relationship problems, university applications, and two people squabbling like old married couples. Bitter old married couples.


The musing that came with it back in 2011 when I was applying for college and abandoned because life happened. Finished it because…well, life happened and application season has begun AGAIN, this time for graduate school (eyeroll). Good luck to all the potential college students. Eeep.

/

/

The letter came from out of the blue.

"Wharton," Ryoma read out loud, his voice droll and flat in the morning air, "You've been accepted to the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. Congratulations; we hope to see you soon." He looked up. There was more flatteries, but that was all he needed to announce before he could get a proper reaction. Keigo was sipping his coffee, looking mildly irritated. He was tapping his morning slipper with one foot, in any case.

"So," Ryoma continued, unfazed by this lack of enthusiasm of being accepted to one of the most prestigious business undergraduate universities in the world, "Pennsylvania."

Keigo snorted. His coffee cup was still full as he set it down on the table. "I still have a couple of weeks to decide," he said loftily, reaching his hand out for the morning newspaper, " A month, at least. It's not a pressing matter."

Ryoma raised an eyebrow. "Fine," he said, hoisting up his school bag and grabbing the pile of letters along with it. He dumped them on Keigo's lap as he was heading out. "Decide the London Business School too, while you're at it."

Keigo frowned and didn't meet Ryoma's eyes.

/

/

Ryoma knew it was bound to happen.

"Momo-senpai," he grumbled, trying to swat away Momo's arm that was threatening to choke him, "Momo-senpai. You're suffocating me."

"That's captain to you, brat," Momo grinned, ruffling up Ryoma's hair in clear disarray. Ryoma just gave him a disgruntled look that indicated what exactly he thought that certain title deserved. A headlock was clearly not one of them. Momo, being the end of Ryoma's touch-me-and-die looks for four years and counting, predictably ignored it.

As he struggled to shove off his best friend and straighten up his shirt to a passable degree, Ryoma didn't dwell too much on the matter.

/

/

Obviously Keigo thought differently.

"Have you considered my proposal?" he asked over a glass of wine during dinner. Ryoma paused cutting his lobster and resumed just a second after. Keigo made a small, irritated sound at the back of his throat and picked up his wine glass. "Obviously not," Keigo muttered, before swirling the black-red liquid inside the pristine crystal cup, "Have you even thought about it at all?"

"Have you decided?" Ryoma threw back, cutting the lobster with more force than necessary. "London or Wharton?"

Keigo shrugged. He took a careless bite of his own dinner, steak licked with oriental sauce and cooked until the edges shone a crisp brown. "I would say London," he said stiffly, examining his potatoes with great interest, "Since England _is_ my home country."

"Good for you," Ryoma said, and ignored the sharp glare Keigo directed at him next.

"You're avoiding the matter," Keigo said coolly, "As always."

Ryoma shrugged and met those blue eyes with an even stare. "I have one month to decide," he said, and took another bite of his lobster.

/

/

"Have you two broken off?" Momo asked hopefully the next day, his eyes darting to the empty Seigaku High gates, then back to Ryoma again. The sleek, silver Bentley that Keigo loved to drive and show up pretentiously every day to pick Ryoma up without fail had been missing for two days. Ryoma grunted and stuffed his tennis uniform down his bag.

"We fought."

Momo's eyes turned wide like saucers before he repeated the sentence. "You fought?" he exclaimed, so that everyone within a twenty-foot radius could hear him, "But you two always fight!"

"Not like that," Ryoma said tiredly, wondering why he had to explain all the complicated ups and downs of a relationship to Momo who was severely whipped by Ann Tachibana. "We just…fought." That sounded a lot less lame in his head.

Momo blinked. "I don't get it," he said.

Ryoma shrugged. He didn't want to admit that he didn't either.

/

/

"Are you going to ignore me for four weeks?" Ryoma said as soon as Keigo picked up the phone. It was freezing out in the cold. This year's April was cursed.

"Echizen," Keigo said, "I should have known."

"You've been ignoring my calls," Ryoma said, rolling his eyes, "Comment?"

"So the position's been reversed," Keigo drawled out, "How refreshing."

Ryoma had to remind himself that it was the five-star sushi he missed and not the blasted boyfriend of his. "Keigo," he tried nicely, "We should talk."

"Ryoma," Keigo mocked back, "Have you thought about it?" The wind was growing stronger outside. Payphone's were a bitch.

Ryoma scowled and stood silent. He didn't hang up even as the click resonated on the other end.

/

/

"Have you two—" Momo began.

"No, we're still fighting," Ryoma snapped. He stuffed his racket down his bag and wished it was Atobe fucking Keigo. Momo stared at the poor state of his bag. Ryoma kicked it for good measure.

"Ann always said that conversations were the best way to make up," he began nervously, scratching his head, "So, um, you know. You should talk."

Ryoma gave him a flat glare that suggested just what he thought of that idea.

"Of course," Momo amended, his grin turning slightly goofy around the corners, "I always did prefer kissing over—hey, Echizen, wait!"

/

/

He decided that he was going to hole himself up against the world and annoying senpais. Or at least until Keigo came to his senses and groveled.

He slouched down on his sofa and frowned. The TV wasn't showing anything interesting, his mom was out of town, and he missed his sushi dinners.

The doorbell rang.

He ignored it, choosing to flick over the channels with his foot. A talk show, news, news, more news, a golf game, a sitcom….

"Smart of me to have your house keys, don't you think?"

Ryoma didn't turn to look at the intruder. He opted for the finger.

"Barbaric," Keigo said. He settled himself two seats away from Ryoma. A smart move too; that was a kicking-free range.

Ryoma still threw a cushion at him.

Keigo caught it. Ryoma didn't look over to see if the bastard was smirking or frowning, or doing the little weird face in-between. "I came over to talk," Keigo said, "Not to engage in childish endeavors."

"Good for you," Ryoma muttered, refusing to sit up, "Where were you last week when I tried that?"

"Tried," Keigo said lightly, "You didn't quite succeed."

Ryoma slammed his foot into the button harder than necessary. "Oh, fuck you," he said, perhaps sharper than he wanted to, "Come back when you stop sprouting colorful bullshit."

Ryoma felt those eyes looking at him. Keigo didn't volunteer to speak again for a few minutes. The anchor's buzzing voice filled the silence.

"I came to hear your answer," Keigo finally said, "I need to find a flat soon in London."

Ryoma stiffened. "I still have—" he began, but Keigo cut him off.

"Three weeks, yes. But would it kill you to tell me now?"

The woman on the TV was wearing too much make-up. Ryoma stared at the screen, hoping it'll give him some answers. "Next week," he said, "I'll tell you by next week."

Keigo was still looking at him. Ryoma turned and scowled. "Next week," he snapped, "So stop staring at my face, asshole."

Keigo raised an eyebrow. His hair was ruffled and his suit was wrinkled; either he was in a hurry, or he didn't think Ryoma was worth his time to straighten up. Ryoma turned his eyes back on the screen and a second later, he felt the couch shift and Keigo was back on his feet, heading towards the door. Ryoma felt his throat constrict. Only a little.

He was about to turn off the TV and sulk in peace in his own room when he felt his hair yanked, his face forcefully tilted up. He automatically scowled.

Keigo stood behind him, his face leaning down. A wry smirk was plastered on his face. "Dinner?" he suggested causally. His hands fingered Ryoma's locks.

Ryoma rolled his eyes but didn't slap away the hand. "Sushi," he agreed, hoisting himself off from the sofa and hoping he had something decent to wear, "But only because you asked so nicely."

He didn't wait around to hear the snort of laughter.

/

/

After dinner (and some hasty make out sessions in the driver's seat in-between) Ryoma sat on the edge of his bed and started making a list.

The Pros of London

1\. Wimbledon

2\. Tennis

3\. Sushi

He paused. Did London have decent sushi restaurants? He scratched that off.

3\. Wimbledon

He already had that.

3\. Tezuka-buchou

Tezuka was in Germany. He might wheedle out a match or two by flying across the Atlantic just to catch up with his old middle school captain.

4\. Keigo

After he wrote the name, he stared at it for a long time. It was only when Nanako called him did he crumble the piece of paper and threw it away.

/

/

"I'm not moving my entire life just for you," he told Keigo the next day, "Even you can't be that arrogant."

He is at Keigo's makeshift office. Secretaries are giving him odd looks, his Seigaku uniform an anomaly, his scowl even more so.

Keigo barely looked at him as he sorted out some papers on his desk. "Genius conclusion," he said, bored, "And, as usual, off the point. What is it with you and your random inserts?"

Ryoma seethed inside. He had ditched Momo after school ("Still haven't made up?" Momo had said dubiously, "Have you even listened to my advice?") just to hear Keigo state the obvious.

Sometimes Ryoma wondered just how masochistic he truly was.

"That's the point here," he said, noticing how Keigo wore his suit freshly neat and tidy when he was in his office, "I have a life in Japan. End of discussion."

"And you moved to America on your first win in Nationals, and then back to Japan again. And then, should I add, back and forth ever since," Keigo drawled, "You have a life here, and you have a life there. We both know that you have an abnormal amount of nomadic tendencies."

Ryoma scowled.

"Is that it?" Keigo said, his hand reaching out to his phone. He hadn't looked at Ryoma's way once. "Or are there other excuses you would like to bubble out before you finally decide to come clean?"

"That _is_ my reason," Ryoma said sharply, "There's nothing else."

"Oh good," Keigo said, just as coldly, "That means yes to my proposal?"

Ryoma stood in the middle of the ridiculously large office, dumbstruck, as Keigo beeped his secretary.

"You're being an idiot," he finally snapped, "I have—"

"Wimbledon in London, Nationals in Japan," Keigo said, looking at him for the first time he set foot in the office. The eyes were steeled. "Ask any five-year old on the street. What would you choose? Tennis isn't the issue here, neither is school. Or anything else," he added, just as Ryoma was about to open his mouth again, "That you would like to offer. Save it."

There were a million other reasons for rejection, or delay. Ryoma bit his lip, ran his tongue over his inner roof of the mouth. Keigo sat there, no longer looking at the pile of papers. The phone rang, but he ignored it. Those eyes were trained on him.

"You're making this sound like a death warrant," he said, looking away. He noticed that he had clenched his fists sometime before. When was it?

"You're making it proceed like one," Keigo retorted, running his hands through his hair. _Frustrated_ , Ryoma thought. Keigo only did that when he was frustrated. He surprised himself by letting that thought flow unconsciously into his head. Since when did he notice such little things about other people? Somehow when it came to this boy whom Ryoma had once mocked and shaved off his head.

He tried to say something. Something, anything. Retorting back to Keigo should be easy; it should come naturally to him.

Instead his voice became miserable and pathetic. "Okay."

Keigo's eyebrows rose. "Okay?" he echoed. "That's it?"

He tried to clear his throat. "Yeah. Fine," he said, and turned back to exit the office as soon as possible. "I'll start packing."

/

/

The first thing he had said when he saw Keigo's applications: "Wow, I guess we should say goodbye now."

They were at Keigo's newly brought flat, celebrating with white wine that Ryoma was technically not legal enough to drink but which he drank anyway under the careless supervision of Keigo. He was getting fuzzy around the edges and held up pieces of paper that had neat block letters of Atobe's kanji name. "Can they even read this?"

"Those are for Tokyo schools," Keigo said primly, leaning over to snatch the papers out of his grasp, "And what do you mean goodbye? You're going to college someday too, don't be such a dramatic queen about it."

"But monkey kiiingggg," he drawled (he was two glasses by this time, a bit tipsy, a bit red and on the verge of laughing hysterically) "You're going to London." He picked up another paper that was out of Keigo's range and flapped it at him. "See? London. Why not Oxford or Cambridge? I thought you'd only want the best. Or something."

"It's so nice that you can read," Keigo said pleasantly. "Give those back. Father's company is near Westminster, and it would be a bore to commute every day after class. It was more…" Keigo wrinkled his nose, "Efficient. I'd like to get my MBA at Harvard, though. Not that," and Keigo rolled his eyes at him, "You would actually care about any of this."

"I don't," Ryoma chirped in agreement. He reached for the wine bottle but Keigo beat him to it. He cradled the bottle close to him and narrowed his eyes at Ryoma.

"You sound too happy," Keigo decided, "I think that's my warning."

"Hey," Ryoma protested, "I'm allowed to be happy!"

"Are you?" Keigo surveyed the wine warily, as if it might be the secret evil mastermind to all things, and sighed. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter. What do you mean about your trivial goodbyes?"

"You're going to London," Ryoma pointed out, "And I'm in Tokyo. Monkey king—"

"Do stop calling me that."

"Keigo, my dearest, dearest Keigo," Ryoma said with a mocking wave of his arms (Keigo grimaced) "I don't think we would survive ten hours of plane rides. I really don't think it would work out. Etc. So yeah, I think my goodbyes were justified."

He meant it half-jokingly, but the gaze that Keigo gave him was too meditative and manipulating. All things considered, he was still drunk and the wine was slowly working its way towards his body. "You could move," Keigo said, a bit too lightly, "I thought you said you were going to turn pro after high school."

"I was also thinking college too," Ryoma said, sticking his tongue out. Keigo flicked his forehead and made a grab for his lips with his thumb and forefinger; Ryoma backed off just in time.

"Cute," Keigo said, "Maybe it's time to consider you future seriously while I'm angsting over all this."

"Maybe," Ryoma said. And because, he would say later (would justify himself later very vehemently), because he was drunk and silly enough and in the moment, he smiled beatifically at Keigo and announced, "Maybe I'll move in with you to London and train for Wimbledon."

Keigo tilted his head and looked amused. "Will you now," he murmured. "I'll hold you on to that."

That was where they were now.

/

/

A/N: also a two-part series. I seem to want to write more versions of a domestic Atoryo these days. Good for me I guess? (ignoring the huge medieval/political mastermind novel that I am plot-bunnying)

Reviews are welcome!


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